I can't even believe that it has been six months since The Worst Day. Well, technically, today was the middle of the three worst days. I was in the middle of my long induction, hopped up on morphine, and my thoughts and emotions were scattered.
I thought I was okay yesterday, which was six months since the day we first heard the terrible news. I was at work doing my thing when it just hit me. Thankfully, my boss is very supportive and didn't question it when I asked if I could have the next day off. She sent me home right then, in fact. I am so grateful.
Six months.
My depression has ebbed, though the past two weeks have been hard. I supervise summer camps as a part of my job, and this particular camp was full of little girls. A friend and a coworker had babies on the same day. Six months happened yesterday.
I have been sleeping most nights, which is a true blessing. The four months of not sleeping is what really sent me spiraling, I believe. Being back to work has lifted my mood and reminded me that there is still life outside the walls of my home. That I am good at things, and useful, and that someday I will have joy again.
I held a newborn baby yesterday for the first time since I held Haven. It was so hard, and my heart was heavy all evening afterward, but I think it was a good thing. He was just a beautiful little guy, sleeping so deeply as Danny and I passed him back and forth. His mom had a placental abruption and had to have an emergency induction. Though the situation was so different than what we experienced, I could tell that it had shaken them, made them think of us, made them so grateful for a good outcome when it could have been so different.
On that note, I am weaning from my antidepressants and hope to start trying again this month or next. I am so grateful now that I did not get pregnant when we were trying a few months ago. I was not anywhere near ready, and I was half out of my mind with grief and mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion. Now I feel like I can start this again with a fresh head, with a new strength.
And I am strong. It has taken me all of this time to realize that people were right when they said that I was strong as I put one foot in front of the other in the days after Haven was born. I was strong when we buried her. When I sunk to the bottom of the pit. When I crawled back out. When I faced the world again. When I learned how to smile again.
Joy comes from weird places, I find. Instagram, for instance. I didn't know what it was for months, until my boss explained (I might be the oldest 29-year-old ever). And now I am hooked. It actually brings me a lot of joy to take pictures and publish them. Cooking has been another joy. I love cooking, but when I was depressed I just couldn't. Crafts bring me joy. I have been making tutus and painting picture frames with friends, and it is lovely. Exercising. Well, I am working on that one, ha ha! I have also started another blog. Where this one has been a depository for my pain, the new blog will be a place where I track my redemption, my new beginning. I will post the link when it is ready to share, if you are interested in following. I will continue to need this space to put the pain, but I am now in a place where I need to sort out other feelings too.
Let's be clear: I have not arrived. I am not "all better." I never will be. I still cried on my way home yesterday thinking about my daughter's tiny body resting in my arms. No, I am not okay yet. But I will be. This is not where my story ends. It's just where it begins.
Showing posts with label firsts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label firsts. Show all posts
Friday, 15 August 2014
Sunday, 11 May 2014
Mother's Day
I have been dreading this day since the day Haven came into the world, silent. I had anticipated this day almost as much as the day I would give birth, because I would be able to celebrate all of the joy she had brought me in those amazing nine months. I bought a special "I love my mommy!" onesie that I would have dressed her in, and I would have brought her to church to be ooh'd and ahh'd over. I would be able to stand with the other moms, and the kids in the church would have gone around, bringing flowers to all of the moms.
Not to be.
I decided right away that I would not be visiting church today, because I couldn't bear the thought of standing...or not standing. I couldn't decide if getting a flower or not getting a flower would be worse. I knew I would weep buckets, no matter what, and crying in front of people is something that makes me uncomfortable. At first, my husband didn't understand, but he supported my decision to stay home (he'll be coming home from work early to cook me supper and snuggle in front of some cheesy movie of my choice). He also posted an incredibly sweet message to me on facebook. I couldn't ask for a better man to be my partner on this unexpected path.
A good friend sent me this article (click here) yesterday, and it put into words some of the feelings I've been feeling, as well as some of the thoughts I've had about other moms and women in my life. I know so many women in these various situations, so I chose to represent them in my facebook status today:
Not to be.
I decided right away that I would not be visiting church today, because I couldn't bear the thought of standing...or not standing. I couldn't decide if getting a flower or not getting a flower would be worse. I knew I would weep buckets, no matter what, and crying in front of people is something that makes me uncomfortable. At first, my husband didn't understand, but he supported my decision to stay home (he'll be coming home from work early to cook me supper and snuggle in front of some cheesy movie of my choice). He also posted an incredibly sweet message to me on facebook. I couldn't ask for a better man to be my partner on this unexpected path.
A good friend sent me this article (click here) yesterday, and it put into words some of the feelings I've been feeling, as well as some of the thoughts I've had about other moms and women in my life. I know so many women in these various situations, so I chose to represent them in my facebook status today:
Sometimes things happen in our lives that make us see things we never saw before. So...I know that, if you are reading this, you have probably lost a child. Please know that I am thinking of you today. Please know that you will always be a mom, even if your child is not here with you. Be kind to yourself today, and every day.
Today I am thinking of my friends whose mothers are sick, and those whose mothers are no longer here. I'm thinking of those whose relationship with their mother or child is not a happy one. I'm thinking of the adoptive and foster moms, and of the moms who made the loving choice to give up their child for adoption. I'm thinking of the many moms I have met who are like me, having lost their child (some of whom are bravely walking the pregnancy road again). I'm thinking of the women who are battling infertility and longing to start a family. I'm thinking of the new moms, and the moms to be. And I'm thinking of my mom, who always worked hard to give us the best life possible.
Mother's Day means a lot of different things to different people. Today is bittersweet, because I ache to hold my beautiful daughter. She brought us a surplus of joy in the short time she was here, and we will always have that. I long for the day when I will hold her again, and I look forward to someday building a family with my wonderful, kind husband.
 |
| Crocuses always make me think of hope, pushing up from the cold, dead ground. This one gave me a moment of faith in the idea that someday we will have "take home" babies of our own. |
Friday, 9 May 2014
Invisible Parents, the Sequel
There is a parental child benefit that all parents in Newfoundland receive upon the birth of their child. It also applies to parents whose child was stillborn. To be honest, I wasn't sure at first that I wanted it. I felt a little sleazy collecting money when my daughter had died and I didn't have any child-related costs. But I realized quickly that funerals and headstones and all of those things cost money, and they are not covered in any way when your child is stillborn (my insurance booklet very "tactfully" says that my coverage for a dependent's life insurance is only for children "from live birth"). So every expense has been out of pocket. (It turned out that, thanks to the generosity of our friends, family, and coworkers, we were able to cover all expenses without going into debt.)
Filling out the application was emotional for me. You have to tick a box saying that your child was stillborn, and the form asks for the child's name, but it is "not required if you are applying as a result of a stillbirth." I felt like the form was screaming, "YOUR BABY IS DEAD AND SHE DOESN'T MATTER AS MUCH AS OTHER BABIES!" For the rest of our lives, we will have to fight for the legitimacy of our parenthood to our daughter. The fact is that many won't view her as a person and will not think our grief and acknowledgement of her as our daughter is justified. So...I filled her name out anyway. Small victories.
We completed the application and mailed it in with all relevant information and additional forms, only to receive a letter in the mail saying that our application could not be processed because we needed to include a stillbirth registration letter. What? No one told us that we needed one or how to get it, and the application form did not mention it. Stillborn babies don't get birth or death certificates. All I had was a letter from the funeral home confirming that they held a service for Haven. So I had to call that office back to find out what they needed and how to get it, then I had to call Vital Statistics in order to request it.
When I asked why I hadn't been told anything about it, the lady said, "well, I think because it's a hard thing to talk about with parents." I said, "well, it's a whole lot easier than putting parents through this process!" Having to rehash our story with strangers over the phone is one of the most stressful and painful things that I have had to do, and it's something I have had to do more often than you might think. Honestly, I don't give two craps how uncomfortable our situation is for someone else to deal with. They aren't the ones who lost their only child, so they can, quite frankly, suck it up.
This pissed me off, but I restrained myself. After all, it wasn't that lady's fault that the system is broken.
At least there is a happy ending to this story. Or there will be. A local blogger who lost her daughter in a similar way to us (Being Everlee's Mom) contacted the government about this issue and they are now working on a way to streamline the process to spare parents from having to jump through hoops in order to have their children recognized. I know that a lot of families will benefit from such a change. I guess it's just one change at a time, one courageous parent's voice at a time, that will make stillbirth and parents of stillborn babies visible.
Filling out the application was emotional for me. You have to tick a box saying that your child was stillborn, and the form asks for the child's name, but it is "not required if you are applying as a result of a stillbirth." I felt like the form was screaming, "YOUR BABY IS DEAD AND SHE DOESN'T MATTER AS MUCH AS OTHER BABIES!" For the rest of our lives, we will have to fight for the legitimacy of our parenthood to our daughter. The fact is that many won't view her as a person and will not think our grief and acknowledgement of her as our daughter is justified. So...I filled her name out anyway. Small victories.
We completed the application and mailed it in with all relevant information and additional forms, only to receive a letter in the mail saying that our application could not be processed because we needed to include a stillbirth registration letter. What? No one told us that we needed one or how to get it, and the application form did not mention it. Stillborn babies don't get birth or death certificates. All I had was a letter from the funeral home confirming that they held a service for Haven. So I had to call that office back to find out what they needed and how to get it, then I had to call Vital Statistics in order to request it.
When I asked why I hadn't been told anything about it, the lady said, "well, I think because it's a hard thing to talk about with parents." I said, "well, it's a whole lot easier than putting parents through this process!" Having to rehash our story with strangers over the phone is one of the most stressful and painful things that I have had to do, and it's something I have had to do more often than you might think. Honestly, I don't give two craps how uncomfortable our situation is for someone else to deal with. They aren't the ones who lost their only child, so they can, quite frankly, suck it up.
This pissed me off, but I restrained myself. After all, it wasn't that lady's fault that the system is broken.
At least there is a happy ending to this story. Or there will be. A local blogger who lost her daughter in a similar way to us (Being Everlee's Mom) contacted the government about this issue and they are now working on a way to streamline the process to spare parents from having to jump through hoops in order to have their children recognized. I know that a lot of families will benefit from such a change. I guess it's just one change at a time, one courageous parent's voice at a time, that will make stillbirth and parents of stillborn babies visible.
Monday, 5 May 2014
The Real World Approaches
In Canada, you would normally receive a full, paid year off from work (up to 55% of your normal earnings) if your baby is born alive and well. You still receive the pregnancy/maternity leave portion of your Employment Insurance when you deliver a stillborn child due to the physical recovery and time for grieving. That means 15 paid weeks, and two unpaid weeks. Your employer must give you your job back, or an equivalent job with equivalent compensation. Well, I am about a month away from the end of my pregnancy leave, and I am starting to think about reintegration into The Real World. I have been in a safe bubble of sorts; I've been able to choose the people I want to be around, I have been able to focus on physical recovery and grieving, and I have been able to start each day at my own pace. That will change soon, and I am afraid.
I am afraid of strangers' reactions, since I have such a public job. The more I read forum posts and pieces of people's stories, the more I realize that there are a LOT of people out there who don't understand stillbirth and don't ascribe personhood to stillborn babies. Therefore, they don't think a parent is justified in mourning as though their baby breathed on the outside, or in talking about them the same way as they would any other child they bore. It's ridiculous, frankly. There are babies born much earlier than the point where Haven died, and if they were to spend even a few hours breathing on the outside, even with assistance, a lot of people would think of those babies more as people than they would my daughter, because she never breathed on the outside. I am afraid of meeting these people because I am afraid I'll either lose my mind and yell and them, or that I will be dumbstruck, and they will take my silence as agreement or some sort of proof that they are right.
I am afraid that I won't be able to keep up with things anymore. My job requires me to be "on" all the time, and to remember things. To keep things running smoothly. An administration job is not the kind where you can just shut off your mind. I was always sharp, remembered the little things, did things without being asked or reminded. And now, here I am. I still have "mommy brain" from all the hormones (I've heard this might never go away), my grief is horribly distracting, my focus on trying to conceive (TTC) is distracting, my thoughts about how my husband is doing are distracting...there really isn't a lot of room left for sharp thinking. I hope that I am able to flip a switch and just turn the focus onto my job once I'm back, but I'm nervous.
I am afraid that, if I can't conceive before I get back to work, the exhaustion of full-time work will make it more difficult. I'm afraid that if I can't time conception right, I'll end up having to work next year during the most busy and stressful time at work (April and May) and put my baby at risk. I'm already afraid that if I DO conceive this cycle or next, that even those few months at work will be dangerous for my baby due to my stress and anxiety. Basically, I'm afraid of stress.
I am afraid that going back to work will make all of this seem more real somehow. Like it never happened. I should have been returning in February of 2015 after an exhausting and joyful year of nursing my daughter and watching her grow. Now I am returning early, empty-handed and exposed.
I am afraid that people will think that going back to work means I'm okay.
Sigh. I'm just afraid.
I am afraid of strangers' reactions, since I have such a public job. The more I read forum posts and pieces of people's stories, the more I realize that there are a LOT of people out there who don't understand stillbirth and don't ascribe personhood to stillborn babies. Therefore, they don't think a parent is justified in mourning as though their baby breathed on the outside, or in talking about them the same way as they would any other child they bore. It's ridiculous, frankly. There are babies born much earlier than the point where Haven died, and if they were to spend even a few hours breathing on the outside, even with assistance, a lot of people would think of those babies more as people than they would my daughter, because she never breathed on the outside. I am afraid of meeting these people because I am afraid I'll either lose my mind and yell and them, or that I will be dumbstruck, and they will take my silence as agreement or some sort of proof that they are right.
I am afraid that I won't be able to keep up with things anymore. My job requires me to be "on" all the time, and to remember things. To keep things running smoothly. An administration job is not the kind where you can just shut off your mind. I was always sharp, remembered the little things, did things without being asked or reminded. And now, here I am. I still have "mommy brain" from all the hormones (I've heard this might never go away), my grief is horribly distracting, my focus on trying to conceive (TTC) is distracting, my thoughts about how my husband is doing are distracting...there really isn't a lot of room left for sharp thinking. I hope that I am able to flip a switch and just turn the focus onto my job once I'm back, but I'm nervous.
I am afraid that, if I can't conceive before I get back to work, the exhaustion of full-time work will make it more difficult. I'm afraid that if I can't time conception right, I'll end up having to work next year during the most busy and stressful time at work (April and May) and put my baby at risk. I'm already afraid that if I DO conceive this cycle or next, that even those few months at work will be dangerous for my baby due to my stress and anxiety. Basically, I'm afraid of stress.
I am afraid that going back to work will make all of this seem more real somehow. Like it never happened. I should have been returning in February of 2015 after an exhausting and joyful year of nursing my daughter and watching her grow. Now I am returning early, empty-handed and exposed.
I am afraid that people will think that going back to work means I'm okay.
Sigh. I'm just afraid.
Tuesday, 29 April 2014
Headstones
The ground is thawing and we are starting to think about buying a headstone for our little one. I'm checking out the websites for local spots that do this sort of thing. I didn't know such places existed before. What a crap way to learn, huh?
Sometimes this all seems so surreal, like something that happened to someone else. I look at pictures of us from before The Worst Day, and I don't recognize myself. Who are those naive, happy people? They have no idea their lives are about to fall apart. That all of their plans for the future are about to be derailed.
Black, brown, or gray?
"Beloved daughter of..."
"Safe in Heaven"
An etched bird, perhaps?
Or some flowers?
Just one date.
How did life bring me here? When will I wake up from this horrible dream?
Sometimes this all seems so surreal, like something that happened to someone else. I look at pictures of us from before The Worst Day, and I don't recognize myself. Who are those naive, happy people? They have no idea their lives are about to fall apart. That all of their plans for the future are about to be derailed.
Black, brown, or gray?
"Beloved daughter of..."
"Safe in Heaven"
An etched bird, perhaps?
Or some flowers?
Just one date.
How did life bring me here? When will I wake up from this horrible dream?
Monday, 28 April 2014
Baby-dancing, Month #1
Those in the online forum world will get a chuckle out of the title. Almost three months out, we have decided to head down the "trying to conceive (TTC)" road. Aaand, I am obsessed already. I know it's not fair, but when we conceived Haven, she was a total surprise after the one and only time we ever "baby-danced" unprotected around ovulation. But in reading so many forum and articles online, I know it's pretty unlikely that we will have the same luck so close after a full term delivery. Even though my ovulation is already late this cycle, I've been reading into every little ache and twinge and imagining I'm pregnant. I wish I could say I'm being cool about the whole thing, but I know I'll be crushed if my period comes in a few weeks.
It is emotional to be heading in this direction. On the one hand, I am totally excited and ready, but on the other, my fears and worries cover me like a heavy blanket. What if I am infertile now? What if it takes a long time to become pregnant? What if we're trying too early? What if I miscarry, or worse, lose another baby late-term? To be honest, my mind can't believe that I am capable of bringing a living baby into this world. It feels impossible. I am sad, because I know that my innocence regarding pregnancy is gone and can never come back. I know another pregnancy will be so bittersweet. But here we are. I am eager, despite it all.
I know I can never replace my beautiful daughter, but I do hope that I can make her a little brother or sister. I hope that we can bring home a baby, and find healing in that. I miss my baby so much, but I know this is the path I need to be on. Focusing on it has been a saving grace in this wasteland of grief.
One of the only things I have complete confidence in is my relationship with my wonderful husband. I know that, no matter what happens, he will support me and be there by my side. I hope, more than almost anything, that I can make him a dad to a baby we can take home. Nothing could bring me more joy.
It is emotional to be heading in this direction. On the one hand, I am totally excited and ready, but on the other, my fears and worries cover me like a heavy blanket. What if I am infertile now? What if it takes a long time to become pregnant? What if we're trying too early? What if I miscarry, or worse, lose another baby late-term? To be honest, my mind can't believe that I am capable of bringing a living baby into this world. It feels impossible. I am sad, because I know that my innocence regarding pregnancy is gone and can never come back. I know another pregnancy will be so bittersweet. But here we are. I am eager, despite it all.
I know I can never replace my beautiful daughter, but I do hope that I can make her a little brother or sister. I hope that we can bring home a baby, and find healing in that. I miss my baby so much, but I know this is the path I need to be on. Focusing on it has been a saving grace in this wasteland of grief.
One of the only things I have complete confidence in is my relationship with my wonderful husband. I know that, no matter what happens, he will support me and be there by my side. I hope, more than almost anything, that I can make him a dad to a baby we can take home. Nothing could bring me more joy.
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
Bad Idea
*Language alert for this post, if you care about that sort of thing.
Today, I went to Target to do some shop therapy. Turns out it was a bad idea. There were some items I needed to pick up for baby shower gifts (have I mentioned that seemingly ALL the women of child-bearing age in our lives are pregnant or have just had babies?) As I walked up to the baby clothes section, I saw the most beautiful little white dress - exactly what I had wanted to get for Haven for her dedication. Next to it hung the dress my friend ended up buying for her, except in a different colour (her dedication dress ended up being her burial dress). I should have turned and ran. As I reached out and touched all of the little girl clothes, I could feel my face fall. I wondered what people thought of the sad woman touching the baby things. I was thinking, "I miss my baby so much. And what if I never get to have a living baby girl? Or any living babies?" I thought of the hours I'd spent in that same store picking out things for Haven and other friends' babies when I was pregnant. I was so happy back then. What a punch in the gut. I proceeded to the little boy clothes, and every little pair of pants and every little onesie was a knife in the heart. I walked away from there panicked and nearly hyperventilating.
I went to the ladies clothing section and, without consciously deciding to do so, ended up in the maternity clothes. I looked at the beautiful dresses and shirts and it was just painful how much my body longed at that moment to be pregnant again, waiting for Haven to come. So expectant and joyful and naive. I nearly bought a pretty black shirt for myself "for next time," but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's just too hard to think about the fact that I might not get a chance to be that big again, and to think about the pain that my mind fully expects will be the next outcome. I can't let myself believe we'll be so blessed, even though the odds are so small. The odds were tiny this time: a 0.6% chance of it happening, and I got to be the unlucky mama who filled that statistic.
I headed toward housewares, and my super-sonic hearing detected a newborn a few aisles behind me. I doubt anyone else would have heard it, but I did, and I immediately began walking faster to get away, away, anywhere but near that sweet, beautiful, gut-wrenching sound. More panicked feelings, more almost-hyperventilation. Then, up ahead, a little girl around 4 years old with her daddy. Seriously?!
FUCK. (Yes, I love Jesus and I just cursed. Get over it.)
I just hurt so much.
Before I left the store, a family member called and, in the course of our conversation, told me about a drug-addicted woman in their city who apparently just walked out of the hospital, abandoning her newborn, who is now in withdrawal. And I thought, "Fuck you, you stupid woman. Don't you know how unfair it is that you somehow got your baby to term and now you don't even want it?" I could just strangle her. It makes me furious that people take their ability to have a child for granted. Even among my friends who grumble about this or that, I want to just scream at them, "you don't know how lucky you are!!!!"
Some of my friends try to be encouraging and say things like, "try not to think about it happening again," and I think to myself, "what the fuck else CAN I think? This is the only experience I've had: perfect pregnancy with a dead baby at the end for no detectable reason. Just bad fucking luck. And now I'm at least 5x more likely to experience that same pain again. Take your idiotic faith in happy outcomes and shove it." Maybe I'd throw in a kick to the babymaker for good measure. But I don't say those things. I don't kick people in the junk. I just shrivel up inside a little more.
I'm just SO angry.
I truly don't want to leave the house anymore. The world out there is too big, and there are too many babies and careless words and everyone's lives going on without Haven. Can I just hibernate until there is a baby in my arms? Or, better yet, can someone wake me from this horrible dream?
Today, I went to Target to do some shop therapy. Turns out it was a bad idea. There were some items I needed to pick up for baby shower gifts (have I mentioned that seemingly ALL the women of child-bearing age in our lives are pregnant or have just had babies?) As I walked up to the baby clothes section, I saw the most beautiful little white dress - exactly what I had wanted to get for Haven for her dedication. Next to it hung the dress my friend ended up buying for her, except in a different colour (her dedication dress ended up being her burial dress). I should have turned and ran. As I reached out and touched all of the little girl clothes, I could feel my face fall. I wondered what people thought of the sad woman touching the baby things. I was thinking, "I miss my baby so much. And what if I never get to have a living baby girl? Or any living babies?" I thought of the hours I'd spent in that same store picking out things for Haven and other friends' babies when I was pregnant. I was so happy back then. What a punch in the gut. I proceeded to the little boy clothes, and every little pair of pants and every little onesie was a knife in the heart. I walked away from there panicked and nearly hyperventilating.
I went to the ladies clothing section and, without consciously deciding to do so, ended up in the maternity clothes. I looked at the beautiful dresses and shirts and it was just painful how much my body longed at that moment to be pregnant again, waiting for Haven to come. So expectant and joyful and naive. I nearly bought a pretty black shirt for myself "for next time," but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's just too hard to think about the fact that I might not get a chance to be that big again, and to think about the pain that my mind fully expects will be the next outcome. I can't let myself believe we'll be so blessed, even though the odds are so small. The odds were tiny this time: a 0.6% chance of it happening, and I got to be the unlucky mama who filled that statistic.
I headed toward housewares, and my super-sonic hearing detected a newborn a few aisles behind me. I doubt anyone else would have heard it, but I did, and I immediately began walking faster to get away, away, anywhere but near that sweet, beautiful, gut-wrenching sound. More panicked feelings, more almost-hyperventilation. Then, up ahead, a little girl around 4 years old with her daddy. Seriously?!
FUCK. (Yes, I love Jesus and I just cursed. Get over it.)
I just hurt so much.
Before I left the store, a family member called and, in the course of our conversation, told me about a drug-addicted woman in their city who apparently just walked out of the hospital, abandoning her newborn, who is now in withdrawal. And I thought, "Fuck you, you stupid woman. Don't you know how unfair it is that you somehow got your baby to term and now you don't even want it?" I could just strangle her. It makes me furious that people take their ability to have a child for granted. Even among my friends who grumble about this or that, I want to just scream at them, "you don't know how lucky you are!!!!"
Some of my friends try to be encouraging and say things like, "try not to think about it happening again," and I think to myself, "what the fuck else CAN I think? This is the only experience I've had: perfect pregnancy with a dead baby at the end for no detectable reason. Just bad fucking luck. And now I'm at least 5x more likely to experience that same pain again. Take your idiotic faith in happy outcomes and shove it." Maybe I'd throw in a kick to the babymaker for good measure. But I don't say those things. I don't kick people in the junk. I just shrivel up inside a little more.
I'm just SO angry.
I truly don't want to leave the house anymore. The world out there is too big, and there are too many babies and careless words and everyone's lives going on without Haven. Can I just hibernate until there is a baby in my arms? Or, better yet, can someone wake me from this horrible dream?
Friday, 14 March 2014
One Month Ago
One month ago today, Valentine's Day, my daughter died. It might as well be ten years, or one hundred. I feel like I was a different person then, before I found out that my baby was gone. I wish I could go back and relive a day when she was still here, just so I could feel her kick again, and to feel the innocent joy and trust that everything would be okay. Sometimes I get phantom kicks and forget for just a millisecond that she has gone away from me.
I thought to myself today that, if I could go back and not become pregnant with Haven just to avoid the pain of losing her, I wouldn't. Honestly, the almost-year that she was growing in me was the absolute happiest my husband and I had ever been. The joy she brought me bubbled up and spilled all over the place. And, you know, I wouldn't trade that messy joy for anything. My little girl was surrounded by love from the beginning of her life to the end...and beyond. Until my heart stops beating, I will love her with every fibre of my being.
We visited Haven's burial plot today. It hurt. Her plot is like an angry gash in the earth right now, just a patch of dirt scarring the cold ground above her tiny casket, a single dead rose laying before her grave marker. She is in the "baby" section of the graveyard; I cried for my dear one and for the other babies as we walked by their stones. I thought to myself that it just isn't right to have to bury your child. She should have grown old and buried us when the time came. Oh, my heavy heart.
The wind blew wild and cold today, just like it did from the time she died until we got home from delivering her. I can't hear or feel the wind without thinking of her anymore.
I love you, beautiful one.
I thought to myself today that, if I could go back and not become pregnant with Haven just to avoid the pain of losing her, I wouldn't. Honestly, the almost-year that she was growing in me was the absolute happiest my husband and I had ever been. The joy she brought me bubbled up and spilled all over the place. And, you know, I wouldn't trade that messy joy for anything. My little girl was surrounded by love from the beginning of her life to the end...and beyond. Until my heart stops beating, I will love her with every fibre of my being.
We visited Haven's burial plot today. It hurt. Her plot is like an angry gash in the earth right now, just a patch of dirt scarring the cold ground above her tiny casket, a single dead rose laying before her grave marker. She is in the "baby" section of the graveyard; I cried for my dear one and for the other babies as we walked by their stones. I thought to myself that it just isn't right to have to bury your child. She should have grown old and buried us when the time came. Oh, my heavy heart.
The wind blew wild and cold today, just like it did from the time she died until we got home from delivering her. I can't hear or feel the wind without thinking of her anymore.
I love you, beautiful one.
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